RAB
by HReynaB
Summary: Reincarnation. Well, he supposed it was better then being trapped as a ghost forever under a lake, or just ceasing to exist entirely. Besides, he had some things to do that he couldn't in the after life.


I know, I know. *Another* knew story from a pretty awful writer who literally never completes anything and has super short chapters. Trust me, I'm not happy with myself for this either.

Oh. Not my stuff, I don't own it, any recognized lines are from the book blah blah blah

"Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. Anything but Slytherin." He chanted mentally to the hat, gripping the edge of the stool he sat on.

"Not Slytherin, aye? Do you not want to return to the house you were in before?"

Couldn't the hat see exactly why that would be such a terrible idea? He, now known as Harry James Potter, would be eaten alive in the house of Slytherin, not to mention demonized and damned by almost everyone else. He had made some bad life choices over the years, yes, but this wouldn't be one of them.

"But the things you could do in Slytherin, the places you could go. No parents, brothers, or psychotic cousins to hold you back from your rightful ambitions. You could be truly great."

"If I don't get ripped limb from limb my first night in."

"Very well. Then it better be GRYFFINDOR!" The hat yelled the last bit aloud, and the young wizard released the stool with a slight sigh of relief, lost in the yells and cheers from the house of red and gold.

He could pull of being a Gryffindor, no problem.

The dark-haired boy moved over to the still noisy table, a shy smile on his face that he only partially had to fake, as he did his best to move away from the enthusiastic hands that seemed to touch him from all directions.

"Knew we would get you!" One upperclassman patted his back.

"Like a Potter would go anywhere else!" Another shook his hand.

"The-Boy-Who-Lived, in our house!" An affectionate shake on the shoulder.

He had forgotten how touchy-feely Gryffindors could be.

"Be quiet and listen to the sorting!" Another hissed, shooting a glare as he somehow managed to sit up straighter. It went beyond good posture and right into unnatural looking, not helped by the red hair, horn rimmed glasses, and nose turned up to the air. Almost a cross between a Malfoy and a Weasley, if one could imagine such a thing.

The commotion settled down, just in time for the last of the first years to be sorted.

"Thomas, Dean." The dark-skinned boy followed him to Gryffindor.

"Turpin, Lisa." Ravenclaw.

"Weasley, Ron." The boy who had joined his compartment on the train ride. Rather Naïve, but a good source of information, and just as he pegged, a Gryffindor.

Weasley sat in the free seat next to him, grinning widely.

"Well done, Ron. Excellent." The Weasley Malfoy hybrid congratulated.

"Zabini, Blaise." Hadn't Zabini been the last name of the Scarlet Witch or Italy, he pondered, watching as he went to Slytherin.

Just as the last boy sat in his seat, the sorting hat was removed from the hall and Dumbledore stood, arms open to his audience as if to embrace them all. It was a bit creepy, if Harry was honest.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore twinkled his eyes at them all.

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Sometimes Harry wondered if the headmaster really was sane, even compared to the Dark Lord.

"Thank you!" And the light sided eye sore took his seat once again.

Food appeared across the table, piling it high in a feast that rivaled most others that he had encountered in either of his lives. Hogwarts' food was always very good, although he hadn't touched any meat since that _incident _in his fourth year.

"Not going to eat any meat, Harry?" One of the many Weasleys asked. It was one of the identical twin ones.

"I'm a vegetarian." And with that, he delicately took a bite of boiled potato, ignoring all the odd looks he got from his house mates.

"That does look good." Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, the Gryffindor house ghost said sadly, looking at all the food being consumed and being spread about the table.

"Can't you-" One of the new first years went to ask, and Sir Nicholas shook his head.

"I haven't eaten for nearly five hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower. "

Harry sighed through his nose, knowing where the line of questioning was now going. Every single year that he had attended Hogwarts, some first year at this table had asked the same question and got the same disgusting result.

"I know who you are!" said Weasley the younger suddenly. "My brothers told me about you - you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

"I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy - " the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.

"Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"

Ah, yes, here we go, the dark-haired wizard mused.

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't going at all the way he wanted.

"Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on their faces, Sir Nicholas flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said, "So - new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron's becoming almost unbearable - he's the Slytherin ghost. "

Yes, showing your partially beheaded neck to a bunch of first years. Yet somehow it endeared the ghost to the lot.

Gryffindors.

"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Finnegan with great interest.

"I've never asked," said Sir Nicholas delicately. Clearly the ghost was the only one at the table with any sort of tact when it came to the dead.

The last of the food faded from their plates, leaving them glistening under the candlelight. Some sort of modified switching spell, house elf magic and absolutely brilliant, Harry knew.

Harry snagged a piece of treacle tart relatively quickly and listened to the conversation once again.

"I'm half-and-half," said Finnegan. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him. "

The others laughed.

How nice of the witch. It was a wonder that hadn't backfired, really.

"What about you, Neville?" asked the youngest Weasley, not noticing the look Harry shot at the red head. The boy's name was Neville _Longbottom_, well known pureblood family, with two very well accomplished and feared light warriors as parents, and an even more terrifying family matriarch.

What were they teaching children these days?

"Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Longbottom, "but the family thought I was all-Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me - he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned - but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came 'round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced - all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here - they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad. "

How did the muggles put it? Ah, yes.

What the fuck?

Even his old parents had known that you couldn't force the magic out of children – every bout of accidental magic used to keep a child out of danger or was the result of fear damaged the magical core. It could take _years _to the repair the damage that they had likely done to the young scion.

Not to mention the sheer rage that would spread if they had actually managed to kill the youngest Longbottom. Magical children were incredibly hard to conceive, let along carry to term, and then to murder them because they were too impatient to wait for a Hogwarts letter?

It was easily the most idiotic thing he had ever heard of, and he took a long drink from his goblet to hide his scowl.

On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione Granger were talking about lessons.

"I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult-"

"You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing -"

Hadn't the girl claimed to have memorized all the textbooks anyways? Shouldn't she have _known _they were starting with matchsticks? It was covered in the second chapter of their transfiguration books (he hadn't memorized them like a certain Ravenclaw in a Gryffindor skin had claimed to, but he had skimmed as a refresher).

Harry turned his gaze to the high table, comparing the professors he would have now to the ones he had before.

Not much had changed, really. Dumbledore was still the headmaster, with McGonagall the deputy. Hagrid worked on the grounds, and Quirrell was still on staff, despite his apparent change in subject. The turban covered man was talking to another teacher, one who Harry recognized and caused him to nearly snort out his drink, etiquette training or no.

What in name of the old gods was Severus Snape doing working as a teacher?

The Slytherin had been two years above him while he attended Hogwarts, and while initially they had hated each other – Severus hated him for Sirius' actions – they had eventually managed to create a somewhat warm friendship, along with his now mother, Lily Evans.

Pain lanced through his skull, breaking him from his thoughts and causing him to jerk forward slightly.

"What is it?" asked Percy Weasley.

"Nothing. " He answered, composing himself.

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. The worst of it had been the surprise, really.

"Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Weasley, just to be completely sure.

"Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to - everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape. "

The boy wasn't wrong, and it made him wonder about why exactly Severus was working at Hogwarts. He was a well-established death eater, not to mention a cruel man, and generally couldn't stand children, even when they had attended Hogwarts.

Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."

If he remembered correctly – Filch's list of every banned thing ever, keeping out of the Forbidden forest, and no magic in the halls. He was fairly sure Sirius and his merry little band was actually responsible for this speech becoming a necessity.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. "

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

Two for three he remembered, not bad at all.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death. "

What was in the water? Had the light side finally gone done the bend? When he died, had he been sucked into some sort of alternative universe? He ran through all the options in his head, concluding that if necessary, he could just camp out in the forest and never return.

"He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.

"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere - the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least. "

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. It was actually an impressive bit of magic, wordless, and the wand movements minimized to almost nothing.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot, just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot. "

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gryffindor first years followed the prefect Weasley through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry was far more awake then the other first years, all worn out from the busy day, excitement, and heavy meal. They passed portrait after portrait, going up in the castle and proving the popular theory in the Slytherin house that Gryffindor was housed in one of the towers.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.

"Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist. " He raised his voice, "Peeves - show yourself. "

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

"Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?"

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!" He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" barked Percy.

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Longbottom's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.

"You want to watch out for Peeves," said Percy, as they set off again. "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are. "

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said.

"Caput Draconis," said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it - Neville needed a leg up - and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs. It was very differing from the style he was used to in his previous life, and even the life he lived with the muggles.

They were directed to their separate staircases – boys on one side, girls on the other – and each of the tired first years changed, dropping onto the four poster beds, exhausted. Harry changed into his own set, although he stayed sitting up behind his closed drapery.

"Great food, isn't it?" Weasley muttered to Harry through the hangings. "Get off, Scabbers! He's chewing my sheets. "

When the breathing changed to soft snores – and no so soft snores, in the case of Weasley – Harry pulled off his pajamas and switched into some black clothing he had left at the top of his trunk. Lifting the lid slowly, he grabbed the box that he had stashed into the bottom of his trunk some months ago.

Opening it, the barest of moonlight managed to glint across the metal, and he carefully grabbed the chain with a gloved hand. It was dark, tainted magic, and tried to whisper to him even through the nullification of the gloves.

He had a headmaster to visit.

The locket horcrux would be destroyed, or he would be damned.


End file.
